


100 Drabbles

by twigglettz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 100 Drabble Challenge, 100 Themes Challenge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy!Tormund, Drabble Collection, Drowning, Light BDSM, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigglettz/pseuds/twigglettz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 drabbles based on 100 prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1-10

**Author's Note:**

> These will be uploaded 10 at a time, and the tags and warnings will be updated with each chapter.

_1\. Birth_  
The idea that they get married had been born from too much wine and a joke gone terribly, terribly out of hand. Jon hadn't even realised what he'd agreed to until a week later when he'd been summoned out to the wildling camp and had come face to face with more flowers than he was sure even existed in the North. An elderly woman had placed a crown of roses on his head and had ushered him into a tent where the whole community had been waiting. As soon as he saw Tormund standing there, hair combed back, grin on his face, he knew he was going to say yes anyway.

_2\. Enthusiasm_  
Jon didn't usually get enthusiastic about anything, would rather mope and brood until he fell asleep and could start the whole thing over again in the morning. It was only after Rickon had died, after he'd spent time with Sansa, that Tormund had asked him about the rest of his family. Jon's face had lit up with a smile, talking so quickly about his brothers and his father and Arya, that he stumbled over his words. Tormund had taken in every detail, amazed at how much Jon changed when talking about the people he loved, and vowed that he'd bring every single Stark that was still alive back to Castle Black. 

_3\. Love_  
Jon wasn't sure what he had with Tormund could be classed as love. They fought together, fucked a lot, sure, but he wasn't convinced it was anything more than that. Someone to warm his bed when he was lonely, an ally that would stay loyal no matter what he asked of them. Jon knew Tormund had kids, daughters to be exact, and he wondered if Tormund felt the same. He'd never questioned their relationship, never tried to put it into words, and neither had Tormund. He was grateful for that. But when Jon had his head rested on Tormund's chest, the soft rhythm of his heartbeat lulling him to sleep, Jon had to wonder if maybe he was wrong. 

_4\. Hate_  
Jon had no words to explain how good it felt when he heard the cracking of bones under his fists, to feel Ramsay's body go limp underneath his. He had never hated anyone in his life. Not Catelyn, not Ser Alliser, not anyone. They had their reasons for betrayal, had only acted in the way they did because they thought it was right. But the Bolton bastard? No, he had no excuses, no exemptions. He was evil though and through. It was only when he saw the looks on the faces of Sansa and Tormund that he'd stopped, their fear that he'd turn into that monster unmistakable. 

_5\. Triumph_  
They'd beaten the Boltons, taken back Winterfell. Jon was home, finally home, with his sister and his people rallying behind him. He hadn't expected to be crowned King in the North, hadn't expected anything other than the same disdain he'd received as a child, but here he was. He'd dragged Tormund to his and Robb's old room, pushed him down onto the dusty furs, and had taken him so hard, he saw stars. Afterwards, he'd told Tormund that it was Sansa's strategy that had led them to victory. It was only when Tormund had kissed him and told him that any warrior that put their life on the line was worthy of victory did he finally feel triumphant. 

_6\. Feel_  
When Jon woke up, he realised that at some point his hand had shifted from under the furs in his sleep. He quickly snatched it back in, convinced that if he'd left it out any longer, it would have fallen clean off. After a few minutes, it still hadn’t warmed up enough and Jon was getting more than a little impatient. Tormund twitched in his sleep behind him, snoring softly, and Jon turned over to face him. He'd been trying to count the freckles on Tormund's face, willing himself to sleep, before giving up and curling up against his body instead. The next thing Jon knew, he was flat on his back on the floor, a shocked and horrified Tormund rubbing furiously at the frozen spot his chest. Jon couldn't stop laughing long enough to explain. 

_7\. Wrecked_  
Tormund was not a fair lover. He would tease and torture Jon until he was begging for release, begging for mercy, would make him scream until his throat was hoarse and tears would line his cheeks. He'd tie Jon's hands down, would suck him until he was just close enough, and then wrap his fingers around the base of his cock so he couldn't find release. He would bite harsh crescents into his skin and Jon would still feel them days later, an aching reminder how wrecked Tormund could make him. 

_8\. Soft_  
Tormund's beard was surprisingly soft. If Jon let his grow out too much, he'd get ugly red marks on the top of his chest whenever he looked down, his hair catching on the sensitive skin of his sternum. When they'd first gotten together, Jon had assumed Tormund's beard would have the same effect on his thighs. He'd been wrong, obviously, and Tormund had used his beard in the most deliciously obscene ways, stroking up along Jon’s cock, tickling against his balls. When Tormund pulled Jon close at night, sweaty and sated, Jon would bury his face in his beard and breathe in his scent. 

_9\. Cold_  
It was always cold at the wall, always filled with ice and snow and dread. Jon had gotten used to it, had gotten used to his toes never being warm in his own bed, had gotten used to being able to see his own breath in the wind. The fires never seemed to warm him, and no matter how much ice they'd melt, it would never stop the cold from settling in his bones. So when Tormund had stayed in his bed, Jon had clung to him. His fire-kissed lover had made him forget about the outside world, had warmed his body, inside and out, and Jon had given him his heart in return. 

_10\. Without_  
When Jon had lived in Winterfell as a child, he'd almost always gone without. Not the essentials, not the things he needed, but things he'd ached for nonetheless. Acceptance, love, a feeling of equality. So when he'd finally returned as an adult, it felt almost blasphemous to have what his siblings had had so many years ago. Sometimes he still felt like Ned Stark's bastard, a terrible mistake that was hidden away and ignored, sent to the wall to become another body buried in the snow. And sometimes, when Tormund squeezed his hand, or bumped shoulders with him, he felt like the King he had worked so hard to become.


	2. 11-20

_11\. Inspiration_  
The nights before battle, Jon rarely slept. He'd lie in bed next to Tormund, head on his chest, trying to let his heartbeat calm him. His mind would race, going over battle plans and army numbers and the probability of them winning, and he would always envision the worst. He'd try and come up with new manoeuvres, new tactics, something the enemy couldn't know, couldn't prepare for. He'd use the freckles on Tormund's belly as inspiration, picking a section to be the enemy and using the rest of them as his men. It was silly, Jon knew, and he'd never admit to doing it, but if it brought him a little peace, he didn't see the harm.

_12\. You_  
“You could have any man or woman you want, Snow. Why'd you pick me?” Jon was surprised at the question, and he pulled away from Tormund's embrace to look at him, furs pulled halfway up his chest and hair mussed from the pillows. He frowned. Why would he not want Tormund? He was stronger than ten of his brothers, a bear of a man, but he'd still get excited and stop to pet any dogs he saw. He could get an entire army to follow him with one sentence, but he refused to stop making lewd jokes in public. His heart was kind and his eyes fierce and Jon had never seen so many contradictions in one person.   
“Because I love you,” he breathed, and hoped that that would be explanation enough.

_13\. Confused_  
Tormund wasn't a smart man. He didn't think anyone who had ever met him would think so. He was a fighter, a soldier, and he was good at that. He didn't need to read to be able to gut a man with his bare hands. Jon was, though. He was just like every other Southerner: educated and learned and well versed in facts and tactics. It was alright when it was just them, Jon didn't need to use fancy words, would be frank with him, but after meetings with Davos and Sansa, he always left confused. He wondered if Jon realised that not everyone was as smart as him. 

_14\. Affection_  
Neither man was particularly prone to showing their affection in front of others. Many of the Northern people still saw their relationship as a perversion and some wildlings were unhappy about their leader fucking a crow, even after all this time. It wasn't that they kept it a secret, Jon was sure all of the Seven Kingdoms knew about the King in the North and his savage bed-warmer, but they did keep it quiet. It happened from time to time though. In the middle of a battle, Tormund would put a hand on his hip to keep him steady, or Jon would squeeze his hand before Tormund left for his people's settlement. It wasn't much, but it was enough to last them before they were back behind closed doors. 

_15\. Joy_  
Tormund was a different person around his children. He would run around after them, happy to make a fool out of himself if it made them laugh, swinging them on his shoulders and throwing them in the air before catching them. He was a patient father, sitting quietly whilst the girls braided his hair and beard, proudly wearing the plaits and knots all the way back to Castle Black. He'd ask Davos to carve little animals from wood for them, and Sansa would sew designs into their furs. So when Jon presented them both with tiny little swords, just like he had with Arya years before, he couldn't have stopped smiling at the joy on their faces if he'd tried. 

_16\. Horror_  
They hadn't been at Hardhome long, had tried to move as many people as possible as quickly as they could, but the white walkers had ravaged more than they could save and Jon had been forced to retreat. They'd only just made it into the boat before they were pushing off, and when Jon had turned back to look at the devastation, his heart stopped in his chest at the sight. The dead were rising, flesh blue and eyes bluer, holes through their hearts and limbs missing. Women, children, none were immune. Tormund was staring in horror, eyes wet from the loss of his people, and Jon wasn't sure how they'd ever win the battle. 

_17\. Acceptance_  
Jon didn't think he needed any acceptance of his relationship with Tormund, thought that as long as they had each other, they could be happy. But when Sansa had turned up, everything had changed. He found himself putting off telling her, avoiding Tormund whenever she was around so as not to seem suspicious, making sure the coast was clear before Tormund left their room in the morning. Sansa had always been the first to judge and with everything that Jon had lost, he couldn't lose her respect as well. It was only when she asked if she could give Jon away when the time was right that he realised she'd known all along.

_18\. Sympathy_  
They were in their quarters at Castle Black, hastily lit candles strewn across the room, bandages haphazardly thrown on the bed. Jon was trying to get Tormund to stay still so he could patch him up, shoving him harshly down on a chair and sitting in his lap. Tormund had a nasty gash across his forehead, just under his hairline, and he was drunk enough that it bleeding more than it should. The stupid cunt had tripped off a walkway whilst drinking with Davos, and Jon had zero sympathy. He could have killed himself. It was only when Tormund had half seriously starting cooing proclamations of love and eternal devotion did Jon start to forgive him. 

_19\. Holding_  
Jon wasn't sure what had happened. He'd been walking with Tormund past the wall, just trying to stretch his legs, talking about strategies, and then he was drowning. Cold had enveloped his body and he felt himself sinking, crying out in shock and helplessly watching his breath rise in bubbles in front of him. He was panicking, trying to kick, trying to push himself up to break the surface, but his clothes were too heavy. His lungs were burning and his eyesight was starting to blur, and then he was being pulled up, hauled over the ridge of ice. He clung onto Tormund, breathless, as he held him in his arms, before he was scooped up and carried back to the wall to warm up. 

_20\. Defeated_  
They'd lost the battle. They'd lost and it was all Jon's fault. He'd rushed in too quickly, bent to Ramsay's will, and his people had been slaughtered for it. The Bolton army had surrounded them, pinning them in, spearing his men until there were barely any left, and those that had survived were taken as prisoners. Ramsay had made Jon listen to every single one of them scream and die until only Tormund had remained,. When Ramsay had come to collect him, he'd made Jon a promise. If he knelt to him, he would put Tormund out of his misery. It took three days before Jon was begging for mercy, and as Tormund's cries finally silenced, Jon knew he'd been utterly and completely defeated.


End file.
